


Sparkle

by Callie4180



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Gift Fic, Holiday Fic Exchange, M/M, sparkly things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 18:11:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8906740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/pseuds/Callie4180
Summary: “Nothing sparkles when you’re dreaming,” Eames said quietly.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [swtalmnd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swtalmnd/gifts).



> For the Secret Saito 2016 gift exchange: this is my gift for swtalmnd, in answer to her prompt: "sparkly."
> 
> (I'm sure this is nothing like what you expected, but I hope you enjoy it. Happy holidays!)

The first time Arthur noticed was in Copenhagen, on a cold night a few days before Christmas. The job had gone south, no one’s fault, really, but he and Eames had been forced to make a run for it. They raced down Elmegard, dodging the few late night pedestrians, leaping in front of taxis to slow their pursuers, and generally running for their lives. 

Hearts pounding, they rounded a corner, Arthur close at Eames’s heels. Eames grabbed Arthur's arm and pulled him down a narrow alleyway lined with small shops. They pressed their backs against the wall, held their breaths and listened closely.

Silence. They had gotten away with it yet again. Christ, Arthur loved working with Eames.

He leaned his head back against the brick wall, and huffed out a soundless laugh. He wasn’t giddy, but it was a near thing. He rolled his head to the side to check on Eames, expecting to see those expressive lips pulled into that distinctive smirk of a smile, but instead he found Eames staring, transfixed, at the shop window a few feet across from them.

Arthur frowned and followed his line of sight. 

It didn’t seem like much at first glance, just a shop window decorated with a couple of strands of blinking, colored Christmas lights. Arthur leaned closer to see what had caught Eames’s attention, but the display wasn’t anything special; just a holiday village laid out on some cheap cotton batting meant to resemble snow. The window was hazy with age, giving each of the lights a small corona. It was pretty, Arthur supposed, though he couldn’t see what was so fascinating.

Arthur looked back over his shoulder. Eames wasn’t looking at the village, he could see now. Rather, he was watching the lights as they twinkled around this entirely ordinary shop window. For a moment, Arthur thought to tease him--he looked rather like a large, goofy hound watching a squirrel--but something wistful and vulnerable in his face made Arthur keep his comments to himself. 

Arthur stepped back, adjusted his shoulders, and looked over toward the entrance to the alley. “We’re clear, Eames,” he said, in a businesslike tone. “Let’s go clean up.” He watched from the corner of his eye as Eames started and blinked once, before finally quirking that smile. Arthur wondered how he’d never before noticed that it didn’t always reach his eyes.

“Lead on, point man,” Eames said, and there was nothing for it but to head out.

\---

Two months later found them working together again, this time on a simple but lucrative job in Monte Carlo. On the night of the extraction, Eames took to the casino floor in the part of a bored playboy, lazily polished in a perfectly tailored tuxedo. After some seemingly aimless wandering, he slid bonelessly onto a stool at the Blackjack table where Arthur was stationed as a dealer. Arthur had been secretly delighted when Eames suggested this as his cover; he’d been a dealer while in college and even a bit after, and he was very, very good at it. More than once, he’d caught Eames watching his hands, and the admiration in his eyes gave Arthur a warm feeling that he decided not to examine too closely.

He dealt with a smooth and practiced rhythm. On the third deal, Eames stood on fourteen, and Arthur swallowed a grin. He should have known Eames had been counting the cards.

A few minutes later, the mark walked up to the table, all adipose and swagger in a three-season suit, accompanied by a woman who was fairly dripping with diamonds from her neck, ears, and wrists. Arthur inclined his head respectfully in greeting, while Eames grunted a welcome and took a sip from his martini. The mark looked them each over once before taking his seat, leaving the woman to stand and watch from behind him.

The mark lost the first three deals. He leaned back and grinned as though he could not possibly care less, but Arthur didn’t miss his eyes narrowing in Eames’s direction, or the slight haze of perspiration on his upper lip. This matched their intel; the man was on the verge of desperate, but was still invested in keeping up appearances. He hailed a passing cocktail server, and ordered a premium scotch for himself and a house gin and tonic for his date. Eames sent Arthur a quick, nearly invisible nod. It was almost time.

When the server returned, the woman reached for her drink, and the low light over the table hit the diamond-encrusted cuff on her arm just right. Though the stones obviously weren’t of very good quality, the bracelet glimmered and gleamed, and from the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Eames go still. Arthur risked a quick glance at him and saw his gaze locked on the cuff. Eames’s expression was still professionally shuttered, but Arthur had learned over time to read microexpressions (it was a valuable skill for a point man, all the better to see trouble coming), and he saw something sad and wistful flit across Eames’s face.

Eames looked at the bracelet with--longing. What the hell was he thinking? This job would bring in more than that bracelet was worth--

No matter. Arthur cleared his throat, Eames blinked, and it was back to business.

\---

Arthur stopped at the door of the warehouse, impulsively turning to Eames, who was following close behind him. “Good work in there,” he said, offering his hand.

Eames stared at it for several seconds before finally taking it. “Thanks,” he said, with a faint smile and a confused lift of his brow. “You too.”

“Thanks.” Arthur hesitated. “Um, you OK?”

Eames’s eyes went blank, somehow, though the smile was still in place.

“Always, darling.”

Arthur wondered about that the entire flight home.

\---

Arthur hated running jobs in the U.S. It was increasingly difficult to avoid leaving footprints, to escape the grid of surveillance. No one wanted to work with cash anymore; it was too hard to bank. Video cameras caught you eating, driving, buying a goddamn cup of coffee. It took a very good job to get him to work in the U.S.

This had been a  _ fantastic _ job.

The mark lived comfortably in Honolulu, a city that had yet to fully succumb to the mainland’s paranoid technologies. The chemist was new, a quiet woman who had listened and nodded, and then handed over perfection in a vial. The architect had created a realistic version of the mark’s childhood home, just imprecise enough to be believable. And the forging, Christ. Arthur had brought Eames in on this one himself, and Eames hadn’t let him down. The mark had handed over the desired information without demur, and the delighted client had seen fit to offer them a bonus for a job well done. Arthur accepted the money with a satisfied smile, turned immediately to Eames, and said impulsively, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Eames didn’t look surprised. “Where?” he answered simply, and nodded when Arthur said he’d text him the coordinates.

Late the next morning, Arthur walked out of the bathroom of his suite at one of Kona’s most exclusive resorts to find Eames lounging on the impractical white sofa. 

Eames took in the resort-branded terrycloth bathrobe that constituted Arthur’s attire with a lift of his eyebrow.  “You know, I’ve only seen you in costume for an extraction, or in a suit,” he remarked casually. “I’d pretty much decided you slept in a three-piece.”

Arthur snorted. “I do, but I don’t shower in one. That would be ridiculous.” He crossed the room to the console table in the entryway, picked up a card, and walked back over to present it to Eames with a sardonic smile. “Yours is next door. This is one of those fancy hotels that has keys and everything. You don’t have to pick the locks.”

Eames nodded casually and took the card. “I didn’t. I scaled the wall and came in through the balcony.” He waved a casual hand at the open French doors. “You really should be more thoughtful regarding your personal security.”

“Well, now,” Arthur said slowly, forcing a glower. “As you know, this is the top floor, so that’s just showing off. Are you trying to impress me?”

Eames blinked up at him, eyes wide and innocent. “Did it work?”

Arthur looked back down at him with a straight face. “No.” He stepped back and turned toward his room, lifting a towel to his hair. “Let me get dressed, and you can take me to lunch.”

“Arthur, wait,” Eames blurted. Arthur stopped in his tracks and tipped his head, listening. “Do we--are you starving?” Eames asked, and Arthur heard something new in his voice, something tentative that kept Arthur curious and still. “I need to--it’s just--we’re twenty minutes away from one of most beautiful places in the world,” Eames continued, and the mood had shifted. There was a tone of pleading that Arthur had never heard from Eames before. Whatever this was about, it was important.

Arthur didn’t have to think twice. “Show me,” he said, still not turning.

He heard Eames’s sigh of relief. “All right,” he said. “You’d better go put on your hiking suit.”

“Oh, shut up,” Arthur said, and closed the door on Eames’s quiet chuckle.

Arthur emerged from his room ten minutes later in a starched white dress shirt with French cuffs and jeans with a crease that earned him a pointed lift of Eames’s eyebrow. Arthur’s glare forestalled any further criticism, and they were on their way. A quick drive and an easy fifteen-minute hike later, the two of them emerged into a secluded cove. Arthur looked at the pristine white beach, the aching blue of the water, the vivid green of the trees, and decided that Eames’s opinion of this place had been well founded. 

As if reading his mind, Eames looked at him with a question in his eyes. “Yeah, I’ve seen worse,” Arthur said with a shrug, and Eames smiled and looked down at his feet.

They made their way to the edge of the sand and climbed up to perch on a boulder that afforded a view of the entire cove. Arthur was entranced by the peace of it all, the quiet lapping of the water and the coos of distant birds. He couldn’t remember the last time he had just sat and  _ enjoyed _ something, and with handsome company at that.

Arthur chanced a quick glance over at Eames, but he found Eames looked anything but peaceful. Eames’s gaze was narrow and focused, locked onto the water as it danced and shimmered. The light played across his face and in his deep blue eyes, and Arthur found himself riveted. Eames looked almost--desperate. There was sadness there, too, and hunger, and loneliness, and Arthur had no idea what to say. He looked back out at the water and thought hard about when he had seen those looks before, in the alley and in the casino, those lights and the bracelet, and now looking out at the water, which glimmered and--oh. 

Oh. That was--curious.

“It’s things that sparkle.” Arthur was careful to keep his voice neutral, with no hint of judgment or teasing. There was nothing in Eames’s expression to suggest it would be welcome right now.

Eames nodded, seemingly unsurprised at Arthur’s insight, without looking away from the cove. “Nothing sparkles when you’re dreaming,” he said quietly. “Have you ever noticed? Everything is flat...” Here he slid his hand along the horizon in front of him. ”Like snow, or sand. Like animation. There’s no detail. No depth.” He sighed. “We write it in when we need it, when it fits a  _ plotline, _ but it’s still not the same. It’s too burned out. Or bright. Or the colors are just off.”

Arthur stopped to consider. “I never noticed that.” He frowned and thought a bit harder. “Huh. That’s weird. You’re totally right.”

“Always with the tone of surprise, Arthur.” Eames cracked a tiny grin, but it faded quickly. “The totem helps, but I find--I just need this sometimes.” He waved his hand toward the water. “Or something like it,” he added. “Just to--ground me.”

Arthur took a minute to appreciate the blue of Eames’s eyes. He looked so sad. Arthur took a deep breath.

“Well, this is nice and all, but I don’t know that this is  _ Hawaii _ enough for me. It’s missing something.”

“I see,” Eames said, and Arthur was privately relieved to see the tension in his shoulders ease. “In your opinion, what would make it ‘Hawaii' enough?”

“Hmm. It’s a good question. I know it when I see it.” Arthur stared out at the ocean. “Wait, here’s a good example. You see all the sea turtle stuff everywhere, right? It’s all over bars and restaurants, the shops at the airport, our hotel. But I’ve never seen an  _ actual  _ sea turtle. I don’t think they exist. They’re mythical, like the kiwis in New Zealand.”

Eames smiled. “There are kiwis in New Zealand. I’ve seen them.”

“Yeah, in zoos, and those weird roadside kiwi house things. But in the wild? Nope.”

Eames shrugged. “OK, you have a point there. But I have to tell you, sea turtles are real.” He looked back out at the water, shoulders now completely relaxed, looking at ease. A smile played on his lips. “I don’t wish to offend, Arthur, but I’m afraid it’s just you. You must frighten them, somehow. They come to me all the time. We’re  _ friends. _ They bump my legs with their heads, like puppies.” He waved at the water. “I’ve petted them in this very cove, in fact.”

Arthur put on a disapproving frown. “I didn’t think you were supposed to touch them.”

“Yes, Arthur, and the two of us represent the very essence of law-abiding citizenry.” 

Arthur had to concede the point, but he knew Eames was enjoying the fight. He put a hint of challenge into his voice. “Fine. Prove it. Show me a sea turtle, Eames.”

Eames stood and held out his hand. “Come on, then,” he said, and dragged him along the beach to the coast. They stopped to pull off their shoes and roll up their trousers, and waded out into the warm, clear water.

\---

Two weeks later, Arthur got an email from an anonymous address. Normally this sort of thing would have been picked up by Arthur’s very effective multi-leveled fortress of software, but there it was in his box. He knew immediately who it was from.

The email contained only a photo of a sea turtle, and the word “thanks.”

Arthur wasn’t sure what to make of it. He supposed they were friends now.

He'd have to think about that for a while.

\---

It was another six months before they worked together again, on what turned out to be a complicated family job in Toronto. Arthur noted Eames had lost some weight, and there were new dark rings under his eyes, but he was almost dazzling in the dream, relaxed and assured. Still, Arthur admitted to himself later, the kick had been welcome. They departed separately from different exits, as was their habit, but Arthur was not surprised to see Eames waiting in Arthur’s hotel lobby, satchel by his side. 

“Got anywhere to be?” Eames asked, looking anywhere but at his face. 

A quick flight, and that night they took in the glimmering lights of Manhattan off the viewing platform of the Empire State Building. Arthur gave Eames a few quiet minutes, then nudged his shoulder and murmured that he was pretty sure he had just seen Batman. 

Eames tried to smile, but it was a tired thing.

Arthur nodded toward the elevators. “Let’s go get a drink,” he said, and led him to a club that he was certain had a disco ball.

\---

The next email contained only a sound file of Prince’s “Batdance.” It was stuck in Arthur’s head for two weeks. They definitely weren’t friends. In fact, Eames was a total bastard.

\---

Arthur and Eames pretended to ignore each other in the airport lounge overlooking the slick, post-blizzard runways at the Reykjavik airport. Neither man was particularly happy. They had gotten the information they’d been hired to collect, but it hadn’t felt right, and some persistent questioning after the extraction had revealed that the client was lying about his motives. Arthur  _ hated _ revenge jobs. Still, they had had a deal, and the terms of the contract had technically been met. Arthur agreed with Eames that the man was, as he had put it, a “right wanker,” but there was nothing to be done for it.

Unsatisfying jobs made Arthur feel itchy.

The storm had started while they were under, raged as they collected their payment and supplies, and finally started to ease just in time for them to leave for the airport. Not for the first time, Arthur found himself grateful for cities that knew how to handle bad weather. Their respective flights were still showing on time, and he was cautiously optimistic.

Now the sun was shining, catching the icy terrain just right, and little spectra of light beamed up from the white coated pavement. Eames pushed his chair up against the window and stared, rapt. Three tables away, Arthur supposed it was all quite lovely, but Christ, it was cold. He shook his head in resignation. Eames apparently caught the motion in his peripheral vision, and his eyes flicked to find Arthur’s reflected in the window, before returning to his study with a knowing smile.

Arthur studied Eames’s profile, noting his pallor, the hint of grey at his temples. He hoped their luck held, and the runways would be clear soon. It was hard to hide in Iceland, and besides, Arthur knew Eames had a job waiting in London.

Which was a train ride away from Paris, the City of Lights. 

On impulse, Arthur pulled out his laptop and bought Eames a voucher for a visit to the Eiffel Tower. (It would have been too--well,  _ something _ if he’d offered to go along, but if pressed, Arthur would have to admit the thought did occur.)

\---

The doorman had fairly glowed as he handed Arthur the silver box. Arthur never got packages at home; apparently this hadn’t passed unnoticed.

Inside he found a single bottle of Jacques Selosse Les Chantereines Blanc de Blancs Grand Cru, with an unsigned note: “The good ones sparkle more.”

Eames was right, of course. The better the champagne, the smaller the bubbles. Arthur popped the cork and wondered how he'd gotten the bottle past customs.

He closed his eyes, imagined the sarcastic quirk of Eames’s smile, and lifted his glass in a silent, shimmering toast.

\---

It was a clear day in Cairo, sunny and hot, with not a cloud to be seen. Arthur cut through the alleyways and around the market, en route for the office they had leased. He looked his usual impassive self, but inside, he was buzzing with anticipation. Eames would be arriving today.

He knew it was presumptuous, but Arthur had already made plans for after the extraction: a private showing at a museum, letting Eames roam among the glittering treasures of some Pharaoh, followed by a late dinner at the restaurant that featured the finest Belly dancers of the region. Their client had taken him there early on, hoping to impress him, and he had been mesmerized by the costumes. Eames was going to love it. They just had to get through the job first.

Arthur fought the impulse to speed up. He was almost to the office. Just two more turns, a quick cut through an alley, and--

He heard a gunshot. He knew immediately.  _ No. _

Arthur broke into a full run, and within a minute rounded the corner to find Eames out and down, blood spilling from beneath him and soaking into the dust. A motorcycle across the street revved and pulled away, but Arthur didn’t look after it.  _ Focus. Stay calm. Stay on point. _ He dropped to his knees and checked Eames’s pulse: irregular, but still strong. The shooter had missed anything critical, thank Christ. He’d have to think about what that meant  _ (inexperienced shooter? a warning, not a hit?) _ but later, later. That spreading stain of blood in the sand was the more immediate concern. He lifted his wrist to his mouth. “Eames is down,” he said into the comm, distantly noting how in control he sounded. “I’m bringing him in. We’ll need a doctor, a med team, and a hell of a lot more security.” He pulled Eames up against him and dragged him unconscious down the street to the headquarters in the next block. No one seemed to notice, and he’d have to think about that, too, but  _ later. _

The door opened as they drew close, and Arthur pulled him into the cool darkness of the office building. First, he had to save his forger. He’d figure the rest out soon enough.

\---

He’d come to the door at least a dozen times, peeking in unseen to catch glimpses of Eames as they worked on him (two units of blood, surgery, bandaging, he’d have a scar) and later as he started to recover. He hadn’t actually gone in, though. He’d had business to attend to, after all, and in any case, he would have only gotten in the way. So he kept moving, taking action, managing, being  _ on point, _ and resolutely not thinking about how his knees had given out and he’d collapsed into a chair when the doctor had told him Eames was finally out of danger.

He didn’t think of Eames’s blood on his hands, either, how it had looked under his nails, on his clothes. He’d scrubbed his hands for nearly an hour, never once meeting his own eyes in the bathroom mirror.  _ Stay focused. He’s getting care. Think about who did this. _

He certainly didn’t think about his dreams, real dreams in his own brain, moments steeped in loss and loneliness, disjointed stories of searching for something that had he hadn’t even known was missing. He didn’t think about the echoes that carried through to the daytime, when he would find himself staring into the distance and wondering--something.

But now it had been a week, and this morning the doctor had told Arthur that Eames had asked for him. He went up to visit after lunch.

Arthur slipped into the cool room, blinking at the darkness. The shutters were open, but a storm was brewing, and the sky was growing black. A single lamp shone feebly from the table beside the bed. Eames still looked pale against the stark white sheets, but the monitoring equipment had finally been disconnected and pushed off to the side. He was sleeping, so Arthur sat down in the wicker chair at the side of the bed and waited and tried to breathe.

Eames finally stirred. He opened one eye and took in Arthur’s presence by the bed before closing it again. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Heard you saved my life,” he said, his voice scratchy.

“The doctor saved your life,” Arthur answered matter of factly, and lifted a cup of water with a straw to Eames’s lips.

Eames sipped carefully and nodded his thanks. “Who’d you get to take my place?”

“I didn’t. We cancelled the job.”

Eames opened both eyes then, glancing quickly over at Arthur and then just as quickly away. “Damn. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Arthur said, and it came out more forcefully than he had intended.  A long minute passed. 

“I didn’t even see him,” Eames finally said, softly. “I still don’t know who it was.”

“I figured it out.” Arthur’s voice was cold. “They won’t be a problem anymore.”

“Shit.” Eames shook his head slowly, regret lining his brow. “Arthur. I never wanted--”

“It’s all right,” Arthur interrupted. “It’s what I do.” He looked down at the floor. “I’m your point man. I see the job through.”

“Ah. Of course.” Eames’s expression shifted, became cooler, more guarded. “The job.” He brushed at the sheets, smoothing them. “Well, I should be able to travel soon. I’ll get out of your way and you’ll be able to get back to work. Maybe you’ll be able to get the job back.”

Arthur frowned. “That wasn’t--” This wasn’t going the way he had planned. “I--brought you something from the market.”

“Oh?” Eames said, the mask still in place, his tone one of polite curiosity. 

“Yes.” He reached into his jacket and brought out a small package, wrapped neatly in a snow white cloth. “Won’t do you much good on a dark day like this, but I had the guy make it for you special.” Arthur unwrapped the cloth and held up the gift: an exquisitely detailed, heavily faceted hand blown glass prism, in the shape of a star. 

“Ohhh,” Eames breathed. “Arthur. It’s lovely.” He took it gently, twisting it around to catch the scant light from the lamp. Even in the near darkness, it managed to shine.  “This seems like a metaphor, somehow, but I’m on too much morphine to figure it out.”

“There’s no hidden meaning,” Arthur replied. “Just--” He shrugged. “I know you like sparkly things.”

Eames’s breath caught, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “Are you tired, Eames?” Arthur asked quietly, stretching out his hand to take the prism back. “I should let you rest.”

Eames dropped the prism onto the bed and caught his hand. “I  _ am _ tired,” he said with sudden urgency, and Arthur knew he was talking about more than his injury. “I’m tired of the endless travel, of having to remember what I’m pretending to be called and where I’m pretending to be from. I’m tired of uncertainty, I’m tired of mistrust, and I’m tired of the assumption that everyone will screw you over for money, or work, or just for the hell of it. And Arthur--” Eames squeezed his hand tightly. “I’m very, very tired of being alone.”

Arthur stared at him, wide-eyed and unblinking. “You don’t want to do it anymore.”

Eames stared back. “No, I don’t.”

Arthur took a deep breath. “Then quit.”

Eames blinked and smiled then, a sad thing. “It’s that simple for you, is it?”

Arthur stood and walked over to the window. The clouds were dark, nearly black now, and the rain was coming down as hard as Arthur had ever seen. A car turned the corner onto the street below them, and as he watched, the headlights caught the flash of the raindrops as they fell. They weren’t pretty, they didn’t  _ sparkle. _ They  _ slashed, _ like metal fragments being thrown from the sky. He heard them, too, angry shards beating on the metal roof, like hearts racing, like footsteps behind them. He pushed open the window and stuck his hand out, into the darkness, and felt the stings of the tiny blades, warm as the ocean, and they felt real to him. This moment was real, the man behind him was real, and they were--they had--they were  _ something _ to each other, he couldn’t say what, exactly, but now that man was going to leave, and he didn’t even have to think about it.

“I’ll come with you,” Arthur said, still looking out at the night, listening to the angry rain and the stunned silence behind him.

“What?” Eames whispered.

Arthur pulled his hand back inside and shook it dry. “I’ll come with you,” he repeated, as he turned and approached the bed. 

Eames’s eyes searched his face. “Why?”

Arthur shrugged. “I don’t have a pretty speech like yours. I just want to come along. It doesn’t make any sense at all, but--” Arthur reached over and slowly traced one finger along the back of Eames’s hand where it rested on the bed. Eames shivered, and that made Arthur smile. “We’re--something, right? You are my...something. Maybe. So if you’re going to go do something else, and if you’d like some company, well--I’ll come with you.” Arthur bit his lip. “I mean, if you don’t--that is, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Eames stared at him, unblinking, for what felt like a very long time. Arthur resisted the desire to fidget.

Finally, Eames licked his lips. “Arthur, darling?”

“Yeah?”

“Pinch me.”

Arthur reared back. “What? I’m not going to pinch you, Eames, you just got  _ shot." _

“Ah, that explains it, then.” Eames shook his head ruefully. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I.”

“No, you’re--oh.” Arthur bit back a grin. “You idiot. Where’s your totem?”

“I don’t know, I got shot, remember? Never mind it, just--Arthur.” Eames reached out and tugged on his wrist. “Come down here.”

“What?”

Eames sighed, exasperated. “Just do it, damn it.”

Curious, Arthur leaned in. “What is it?”

Eames searched his face for a long moment. “Ah,” he said with a breath, and sounded a bit choked. “This  _ is _ real.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your eyes, love.” Eames reached up and traced his thumb along the edge of Arthur’s lower lip. “They’re sparkling.”

Arthur grinned, and behind him the rain fell harder, and he had no idea what he was getting into, and that was perfect, somehow. “Must be the morphine,” he said, and he leaned in for a kiss.

-

**Author's Note:**

> With eternal, slavering gratitude to Kedgeree (Kedgeree11), for the quick, honest beta, and for arranging this fun exchange.


End file.
